


Turn My Blue Heart To Red

by spreadyovrwings



Category: Queen (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23448124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spreadyovrwings/pseuds/spreadyovrwings
Summary: Roger turns up on your doorstep, bloody and bruised, in the middle of the night
Relationships: Roger Taylor/Reader
Kudos: 27





	Turn My Blue Heart To Red

It was 2:34 when the doorbell rang. You knew this because as you shot up in bed, you had just enough sense to glance at the clock on your bedside table. The only light came from the soft orange glow of the lampposts through your bedroom curtains and for a moment, you weren’t sure if you were still dreaming or not.

The doorbell rang again. You sighed, pushing your fingertips against your closed eyes until constellations swam in the darkness of your room. You blinked them and the last remnants of your dream away, begrudgingly letting cold, hard reality take hold. You’d been drinking a piña colada by the side of a pool somewhere warm. It was nice.

The bell rang yet again. Your instincts told you to ignore it, to just turn over and go back to sleep. A few students lived on your floor and they often came home in the middle of the night, playing Knock Down Ginger and drunkenly stumbling away, giggling like idiots. It was probably just them.

You closed your eyes, taking a breath deep enough to slow your racing heart as you settled back down. But then the doorbell rang again, more insistent this time, and under the noise, you thought you heard a voice calling your name. 

“Christ,” You muttered as you pulled back the covers. “This better be good or I swear to God, I’ll-”

You padded to the front door, grumbling under your breath. It was freezing so you grabbed a jumper you'd lazily thrown over the back of the sofa just as the doorbell rang for the final time in three short bursts. 

You were so annoyed that it didn’t occur to you to feel afraid as you pulled open the door.

Of all the people you expected to see standing in your hallway in the middle of the night, Roger Taylor was bottom of your list, right next to the Queen Mother and Uncle Bulgaria. 

He swayed slightly but braced himself against the door frame, offering you a weak smile.

“‘ello, sweetheart.”

You sighed, shaking your head. 

“Roger? What-”

It was dark out in the hall. One of the lights had blown weeks ago and no one had come round to fix it yet, so your friend was half in shadow. But when you opened the door a little wider, the low light from your flat lit him up and you gasped.

The left side of Roger’s pretty face was partially hidden by a crumpled up wad of napkins he clutched as if his life depended on it, but what little you could see was twisted with pain. You looked again and noticed that the napkins were spotted with blood.

Your hand hovered by your mouth, so shocked by Roger’s appearance that you were speechless for a moment. It was only when he let out a low groan that you snapped out of your stunned daze.

“Oh, my God. Roger, what happened to you?” 

You pulled him into the flat, switching on the main light with your free hand. The shoelaces of his ridiculous sparkly pink trainers had come loose, tripping him as you guided him into the living room, but then Roger swayed close to you and under the delicious smell of his familiar cologne, you caught the spike of alcohol on his clothes. 

You both blinked against the bright light. Roger groaned again, his one eye on show squeezing shut. It must’ve stretched the taught skin around his other eye because he hissed, the tip of his pink tongue caught between his teeth. 

Now that the light was on, you could see that a deep line severed his soft bottom lip into two neat halves. Blood dribbled from his right nostril, clouding in the little crease above his mouth. His jaw was patterned with red and purple blotches, bruises that had yet to darken, and there was a half-moon scratch on his neck, like someone had thrust their pint glass into his jugular. 

“Roger, what the _fuck_ ,” you breathed.

That made him laugh but he cut himself off with a groan when his split lip stretched and began to bleed again. 

You sighed and reached up to gently prod the puffy skin around his eye but he ducked away. You gave Roger a look and he heaved a resigned sigh, leaning down and lifting his chin a little so that you could reach him without stretching. 

Taking care to be a little more gentle this time, you brushed your fingertips against the side of his face, over the bruises on his cheek, and down past the smear of dried blood on his chin. 

“Looks worse than it is,” you said quietly. “But I wanna look at that eye. What happened to you?”

You took Roger’s hand and guided him to the sofa. He was still grumbling under his breath as he flopped down onto the cushions. You kneeled down in front of him as he moved the crumpled up napkins away from his face. 

You tried not to let your emotions show. The cut over his eyebrow looked painful but you were right, not as bad as it looked. Still, you couldn’t help wincing. Dried blood painted the left side of his face, collecting in his pale eyebrow, curling around his jaw where he must’ve wiped it away earlier. 

Roger smiled a little at the face you pulled, letting his hand holding the bloody napkins fall into his lap. 

“Got in a fight in the pub. Didn’t do as well as I thought I would.” 

You tutted, shuffling closer until you were settled between his knees. 

“What did you do that for?” 

“I wasn’t _looking_ for a barney.” 

“Oh, yeah, because you’re so shy and retiring.” 

You rested your hand on his thigh to steady yourself, too worried to consider the implications of your touch. His black velvet trousers were soft under fingers but that was all you registered as you leaned closer to get a better look at the long cut over his eye. 

The concern on your face made Roger’s stomach twist, his heart pushing against his ribs, pulling him closer to you. Your hand felt warm against his thigh, even through his trousers, your fingers so gentle as they brushed against his face. He kept his eyes on you as you leaned closer.

“What are you doing here, Rog?” you asked, meeting his gaze just for a moment before you returned your attention to his injury. 

“We were at the pub down the road.” He grinned and it made his skin smart but Roger didn’t care. “Thought I’d better come see my best girl.” 

“Yeah, great,” you muttered, hoping he was in too much of a state to notice your pink cheeks. 

You got up and Roger almost groaned at the loss of contact. You were so warm and soft, so gentle with him, he felt cold without you close to him. 

You’d known each other for a long time, so long that he couldn’t even remember how you met, but he felt like he’d loved you for longer than that, and Roger knew he would love you for as long as you let him, _if_ you let him. 

He sometimes caught you looking at him and he had to pretend he hadn’t noticed, but Roger’s face would heat up at the soft look in your eyes, and he allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that you might feel the same way. But you never said anything, and neither did he, much to the annoyance of all your friends. 

You were such good mates, so good that he could turn up in the middle of the night, bloody and bruised, and he knew he’d be looked after. But Roger didn’t want to ruin that, so he had to pretend that your touch didn’t feel like sunlight on his skin, and that your smile didn’t make his day, and that the way you seemed to sigh his name, like you were always as incandescently happy to see him as he was to see you, didn’t trip his heart every time. 

“You said I can pop round any time!” 

When you came back into the living room, you’d tied back your hair and you carried a little green medical bag. Ever-resourceful. 

“I didn’t mean at two in the morning,” You said, kneeling down in front of him again. “Tipsy,” You raised your eyebrows. “And bleeding all over my sofa.” 

“‘m not tipsy.” 

“Mm hm?” 

“My second drink ended up in some bloke’s lap.” 

“Right.” 

Despite your tone and the unimpressed look on your face, Roger beamed. Oh, god, he loved you. He loved you so much. You were just so beautiful, especially now, in a big jumper that was probably his once, your hair messy, your eyes dark and hazy with sleep. He felt bad for waking you up but he didn’t know where else to go. 

“I knew you’d look after me,” Roger murmured.

You held his gaze. There was a little smile on Roger’s face. It made his cheeks bunch up, his eyes so soft and gentle. Your heart drummed fast as a hummingbird’s as you returned his smile. 

You finally pulled your gaze away and dug around in your rudimentary first aid kit, looking for anything that might be of use. 

“Where did your mates run off to, then?” 

“Huh?” 

Roger watched closely as you rifled through the little green bag. He could see that little determined look on your face, your forehead creasing in concentration. You were going to make everything alright. 

He began to relax, leaning back against the sofa, but you tapped his knee without looking up, silently telling him to sit properly, and he did so with only a little complaining.

“You said ‘we were at the pub’. Why haven’t I got a house _full_ of bruised idiots?”

You finally found what you were looking for and let out a happy little cry. You held up the bottle of iodine for Roger to see and grinned. He chuckled at the expression on your face, so happy to just be with you, he barely noticed the way his smile stretched his bruises.

“There was only me an’ Freddie. I put him in a taxi. He needed to go home.”

“And you don’t?”

“I did.”

You hardly dared to look up but when you finally summoned the courage, you were glad you did. Roger was gazing at you with such tenderness, it almost took your breath away. Your heart felt like it might give up altogether.

Biting back a smile, you pressed a cloth you’d found to the top of the bottle and turned it upside down a few times, then reached up and held it close to Roger’s skin. You warned him that it might sting before pressing the cloth to his cut.

Roger hissed but didn't try to move away, not wanting to make your job any harder than it had to be. 

You dabbed at his skin, tentatively at first, but as soon as his expression softened, you allowed yourself to add more pressure. You watched Roger’s face constantly, the last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.

You didn't say a word as you cleaned up his wound and you were still silent when you reached for a plaster. Tongue sticking out with concentration, you stuck it down just above his eyebrow with nimble fingers then sat back to inspect your work.

“There. How’s that?”

Roger carefully prodded at the tender skin around his eye.

“You ever thought of being a nurse?”

You gave him a look then delved back into the first aid kit, pulling out a cold compress and replacing the iodine. You raised the little blue pack for him to see, silently asking if you could treat his bruises. 

Roger nodded so slightly that you almost missed it. You carefully pressed the pack to his jaw, apologising again when the ice cold compress made him suck in a sharp breath.

“What was the fight really about, Rog?” you asked quietly.

Roger sighed. He closed his tired eyes, his tongue darting out to feel the cut on his lip. He tasted copper and grimaced.

“This bloke was talking out his arse. Wouldn’t leave me an’ Fred alone, so I shut him up.” He laughed bitterly. “Or tried to.”

“What was he saying?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. You couldn't help brushing his soft hair out of his eyes with your free hand.

“Fred?”

“No,” you laughed softly. “The bloke. What was he saying?” You moved the compress and it made Roger wince. "Sorry. Sorry," you murmured softly, but it made him laugh. 

“‘s’alright, darlin’.”

He could probably do this for himself but Roger was enjoying the proximity far too much to say anything. He hummed softly, already feeling infinitely better than he had when he arrived.

“So, what was it?”

“‘s not important.”

Your free hand came up to rest on his other cheek, keeping his head still as you moved the compress again. Your fingers lay across his jaw, your thumb resting against his cheek. 

“Roger…”

He closed his eyes with a soft sigh and leaned into your hand. He was tired too. It made you smile.

While his eyes were closed, you moved your thumb away from the compress and ghosted it over the split on his bottom lip, so light, he almost couldn't feel it. Almost. 

Roger’s lips parted of their own accord, which was a little embarrassing. He wished his heart would stop hammering. It was so quiet in the flat, you were bound to hear it. 

“He was just… He was saying things about Freddie, you know. And I wasn’t gonna have that, so…”

Meaning filled the silence that fell between you. 

Roger opened his eyes and held your gaze, knowing you’d understand without him having to say anymore. 

“Oh.” 

It was all you could think to say. 

You repositioned the ice pack for the final time and Roger didn't even blink. That meant the pain had subsided. Hopefully the swelling would go down soon and he wouldn't end up with a black eye.

“What?” he whispered. 

Roger was very close now. You couldn’t tell who’d moved and when, but suddenly all you could see were his china-blue eyes, the magic curve of his lips, and the cuts and scrapes he’d earned protecting his friend, so red against his soft skin.

“Just surprised,” you admitted.

“Why?”

“Just didn’t think you were so noble.”

Roger laughed. He leaned a little closer, visibly so now. Neither of you addressed it.

“I’m offended.”

“Oh, come _on_ , Rog.”

“Well, I won’t be accused of being a scoundrel.”

His eyes weren’t on yours anymore. They were on your lips. You knew it. He knew you’d noticed. The tension between you was so thick you felt you could grab it in your hands and bend it into shape. 

You dropped the ice pack, letting your hands rest in your lap as he leaned closer still. You found yourself almost stretching your body up to meet his. 

Heart racing, you realised you could feel his warmth even though he was still a few inches away, his breath just brushing the skin of your neck until a shiver ran down your spine. 

Roger. The boy you knew would do anything for you. The friend you’d loved for too long. The man who made you laugh every single day, who looked after you, made you feel safe, always so gentle, and totally and completely yours. 

“You _are_ a scoundrel,” you murmured, glancing down at his mouth when he began to smile.

“I prefer ‘rascal’.” 

His voice was so low, lower than you’d ever heard it. It rumbled deep in his chest, in his throat, and as he moved closer still, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin up the rest of the way, you felt it vibrate through you too. 

“You’re an idiot,” you murmured, eyes sliding halfway shut. 

It wasn’t very clever of you. You wanted to win this little argument, but then Roger cradled your face with his long, delicate fingers, and all witty retorts, in fact, words of any sort, just left your head.

“No, I’m a rascal,” Roger murmured, still smiling. “I’m rascally. You like that I’m a rascal.”

You just had time to murmur his name, the beginnings of a retort that probably wouldn’t have been worth anything, and then Roger was kissing you, soft and lingering. Electricity shot through your blood, your heart rising up and up and up in your chest.

You let out a soft moan, more like a whimper, when he pulled away, and if you’d been able to open your eyes, you would’ve seen Roger smile. Then his mouth was back on yours, your noses bumping as he kissed you. 

It was soft and gentle and all you’d ever wanted, but the soft noise that Roger made as his mouth moved against yours made your stomach twist and you groaned into the kiss, pressing harder against him.

Roger made another noise, his nose scrunching up, and pulled away a little.

“Ow ow ow.” 

You gasped, brushing your fingertips against the cut on his lip.

“Oh, God, Roger! I’m sorry!”

“No, ‘s’alright, love,” Roger laughed, brushing his nose against yours again with a soft hum, deep in his chest. “It’s worth it. You’re worth it.” 

You beamed as his mouth found yours again. Roger’s tongue traced your lower lip until you gave him eager access, your hands on his thighs, fingers digging into the soft material to keep him close.

You hummed against his mouth as he leaned further into you. Roger’s hands drifted down to your lower back, then your hips, keeping you tight against him as you held his face, his very faint stubble rough against your palms. You could've stayed like that forever but you were worried about his split lip.

With a sigh, you pulled away, grinning when you saw the flash of disappointment on Roger’s face.

“I suppose you are pretty noble,” you murmured against his lips. “You staying here tonight?”

Roger grinned. Another kiss.

“If you’ll have me.”

“Oh, I’ll have you.” You kissed him, quickly but carefully not wanting to aggravate his cut. “You need any more painkillers?”

“No, don’t think so,” Roger tilted his head to the side, his eyes dark. “How about you just kiss it better.”

So you did. 


End file.
